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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770447">knee socks</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jxneun/pseuds/jxneun'>jxneun</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Digimon - All Media Types, Digimon Adventure, Digimon Adventure tri.</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aged up characters, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bondage, Diverges from canon, Light BDSM, M/M, curse words, mentions of handcuffs, musician au yamato, tw: PTSD</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:13:28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,748</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jxneun/pseuds/jxneun</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The two of them find solitude in one another, to escape the mundanity of adulthood, whether it be cuddling on the couch or entangled in one another’s grasp (or knots) in the dead of the night.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Ishida Yamato | Matt Ishida &amp; Yagami Taichi | Tai Kamiya, Ishida Yamato | Matt Ishida/Yagami Taichi | Tai Kamiya</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. knee socks</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Pairing: Yamato/Taichi aged up!relationship</p><p>Rating: Mature themes, implied sexual intercourse, light BDSM, angst, mention of PTSD<br/>Fic inspiration: “Knee Socks” by the Arctic Monkeys</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The two of them find solitude in one another, to escape the mundanity of adulthood, whether it be cuddling on the couch or entangled in one another’s grasp (or knots) in the dead of the night.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">You got the lights on in the afternoon<br/>An' the nights are drawn out long</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">And you’re kissin' to cut through the gloom</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">They’re desperate. Touch-starved.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">They’re afraid of the consequences, but not enough to stop themselves.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Still, when things get bleak, they reach out to one another, like moths to a flame.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">A dangerous, vicious fire, threatening to burn the outer layer of their skin, severe enough to scorch the epidermis to the muscle and going as far to the bone, yet it was a yearning for the burning passion they longed.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">It was something to pass the time, to achieve a moment of bliss and guilty satisfaction through the mundanity. To feel alive, feverish kisses and muffled groans came to be a habit in the small apartment. An apartment previously feeling sterile, cold and alien, a bachelor pad with little to no guests, turned into a home with clutter and last night’s takeout on the kitchen counter. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Maybe it started when they had initially graduated college. Maybe it started when they realized they weren’t exactly sure if the path they took was what they actually wanted for themselves. The group was split, everyone was finding themselves, discovering what made them tick and what made them soar. They were moving on, recognizing the child’s war game was no longer their own. They were taking on endeavors which they perhaps never imagined to be as normal as they were. Achieving ‘normalcy’ as one would put it, a common goal among troubled youth alike.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Yet, they were stuck, lost in a maze of their own doubts and uncertainties, trying to pave a way, a path to retribution and justice. The justice they sought, they initially thought was out of compassion and bravery, was actually a gross example of the respite they craved, a break from the everyday bleakness they could never truly escape. Life was a lot simpler when they were kids, just kids who were full of hope and ambitions, kids who thought and actually did save the world. They were kids who accomplished the unbelievable, and the unachievable. They were children whose actions dictated the outcome of the world, children whose determination ultimately allowed for their very existence at this very moment.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong><span class="s3">When the zeros line up on the<br/>24-hour clock</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">When you know who’s callin'<br/>Even though the number is blocked</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Yet, why did it feel like time was passing before their eyes? Why did time lose its value, and feel so much less valuable?</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Why was it, that the only time they felt alive, as they did once upon a time ago, is under the sheets, thrashing and gripping each other’s hips and thighs for dear life? Why did the bruises and marks fuel this pleasure, rather than being indicators of pain and struggle?</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Why did those broad shoulders feel so feeble and fragile under calloused fingertips? Why did those skilled, nimble hands of mine, which moved with ease from years of playing the bass, turn inexperienced and meek under the pendant lighting’s soft glow? When did those hesitant palms grow assertive and demand more from you? Why did the strong, impenetrable image you portrayed yourself to be turn out to be a mere facade; why did it fall flat, almost with practiced ease, in the confines of the small studio bedroom apartment?</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Why couldn’t time just stop?</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong><span class="s3">Well, you cured my January blues<br/>Yeah, you made it all alright</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">When the winter’s in full swing</span></strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong><span class="s3">And your dreams just aren’t comin' true<br/>Ain’t it funny what you’ll do?</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3"> </p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Being vulnerable was impossible in front of crowds. Practicing vulnerability was an entirely different task.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Maybe it was the bright, clean cut exterior which allowed you to appear nonchalant under the most intense court briefings. Or maybe it was those bedroom eyes, which landed you the platform you easily gained in the realm of politics. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">When my mind got like this, you’d kiss me right on the lips and whisper sweet nothings to reassure me that this relationship was uniquely ours and no one could take that away but —</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">By morning, you’d be out the door, leaving our clothes askew, and a note on the dresser detailing what you had made that morning, which was waiting on the table covered with plastic film.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">You were always too good to me.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">The image I’d be left with you is the key on the dresser, for me to close up once I needed to head to meet up with the rest of the band at the studio; in mid-haze, I recall the steam from the shower which you’d use to semi-iron the suit you’d wear to your bureau meetings. The image was a contrast from the blue mock turtleneck with the yellow and orange accents, and the slouchy 90s knee socks you’d wear when we were children tearing at the fabric of time and space, defying gravity and logic. </span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">It’s funny because I realized how much you meant to me when we were stupid, reckless teenagers trying to figure ourselves out. I remember how you had no interest for anyone, all you had on your mind was the weight of the two worlds. Yet, on the side, I was dating and I had no idea about the sheer amount of pressure you were placing on yourself. You weren’t just the football captain at Odaiba, you were the leader whose voice beckoned others to listen, you were the role model whose silly goggles became a trademark, a sign of the times. It’s amazing how you turned those goggles into a legacy, and how you never failed to stun others.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Despite what others thought, in the dead of the night, you were able to simply coexist. Your existence didn’t determine the outcome of the two worlds or the multiple parallel universes, those of which we had little to no agency nor control over. Bundled up under the comforter with nothing but knee socks and my sky blue jumper, you encapsulated domestic bliss, with your cup of oolong, something that reminded you of the others and the old times we’d spend together. On nights you felt you needed to be alone, I’d stare aimlessly outside on the balcony, wondering where the times have gone. I’d think of the times where I almost lost you permanently, and the thought of that ever happening again scares me more than you acting out and having one of those nights. Those nights where you find every imperfection in yourself or find yourself in blind rage or the lowest of the lows, I’d deal with that because I knew, I knew how much your happiness was worth to me.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong><span class="s3">The late afternoon, the ghost in your room</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">That you always thought didn’t approve of you knockin' boots</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">Never stopped you lettin' me get hold of the sweet spot</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">By the scruff of your knee socks</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Under me, with my hands gripping at your wrist and neck, your hands clawed streaks on my back, holding on for dear life. When your hands weren’t tied behind your back or to the frame, you’d cling onto me, grasping at the entire fiber of my being, as if I’d disappear if you didn’t hold on. To fill this emptiness and void, we drank in one another’s sadness and unfulfilled desires; we promised each other safety in a dangerous world. If anyone were to threaten our peace, I wouldn’t hesitate to commit the worst of crimes. If I could be completely honest and selfish, you’d probably be mortified. You’d probably be shocked, from how much validation and peace of mind I truly only get from you. You’d be stunned at the sheer amount of love and attention I need from you. If I had to choose between you or preventing the ultimate demise of the world, I’d choose you. Would I regret it? That’s a question I hope to never find out the answer to.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">In a world I barely knew how to survive, you made it worth living. You made me realize I was more than an archetype, or a figurehead for my broken family. You taught me that I was worth more than what I had learned and been taught to believe.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">Even if I’d cuff you to me, to make you attached to my hip, to fuck you senseless into the mattress, bite hard enough to draw blood, I know that you’d break free. I know you would eventually pass the cracks, fly away, escape into the newborn world as a free range bird, or a newly transformed butterfly. Before I could spread your legs to make you come undone, or make you wait in anticipation as I’d grip at your tender flesh of your toned legs and firm thighs, you’d spread your wings and escape my embrace.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">No matter how strong my grip was, or how amidst your erratic breaths you’d say you loved me and how you wouldn’t trade this for the world, I knew.</span>
</p><p class="p3">
  <span class="s2">I was yours to keep, but you were the world’s.</span>
</p><p class="p2"> </p><p class="p3">
  <strong><span class="s3">When you walked around your house</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">Wearin' my sky blue Lacoste</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3">
  <strong> <span class="s3">And your knee socks</span> </strong>
</p><p class="p3"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay I didn’t sleep, but to be honest, this was pretty fun to write. Even though I have classes and work in a couple of hours, I couldn’t get this idea out of my head. I hope you all enjoyed this darker fic, and to be honest, I think the bond between the two of them is unfaltering, and would stand the test of time, regardless if it were romantic or platonic.</p><p>Also, I love the Arctic Monkeys so expect to see more fics inspired from their songs. (for more mature fics at least). I don’t know if I’ll ever write pure PWP (is that an oxymoron) but this will probably be the most explicit I’ll ever be in my writing for awhile. Let me know your thoughts in the comments below :) I look forward to reading them &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. love is a laserquest</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Pairing: Yamato/Taichi<br/>Rating: Mature, tw: PTSD, anxiety attack, angst</p><p>Yamato has his doubts, but he trusts Taichi. He respects his wishes, and is convinced that things will return back to normal, to the ideal world he painted in his head as he was on tour to get through his days. Through the rose-tinted glasses, he fails to see the wavering smile on Taichi's wiry face.</p><p>Inspired by the song "Love is a Laserquest" by the Arctic Monkeys.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">
  <strong>Do you still feel younger than you thought you would by now</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>Or, darling, have you started feeling old yet</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>Don't worry, I'm sure that you're still breaking hearts</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>With the efficiency that only youth can harness</strong>
</p><p class="p1">Yamato knows that Taichi wears his clothes when he’s on tour for months — there are times when Taichi is abroad on a business trip when Yamato comes back to visit Japan but they miss each other by moments, those moments, he feels the loneliest, and the guilt eats away at him.</p><p class="p1">His heart thumps in his chest, beating louder than any of the drum sets they'd play, even at their largest concerts, amassing hundreds of thousands of fans. In those moments, the adrenaline drowns out any noise; yet, in these simplistic passages of time, silence is deafening. Each time he comes back, he treks up the stairs, preferring to get his steps in to loosen his nerves and to rid of his nervous, anxious energy, almost as if he’s a young teen boy coming to confess to the boy he’s had a crush on since the beginning of the semester. He holds a gift in his hand, hoping it would help lessen the brunt of the news he had, in which tours got longer, and he’d be out of town from autumn to spring. He wishes he was able to be more present, to be able to gently caress his wonderful partner’s face, to show him he loved him so much and would do anything to grant him happiness. If Taichi asked, Yamato would drop the tour, go on a hiatus, and stay in Japan with him as long as he needed.</p><p class="p1">Except, Taichi never asked. He was selfless like that. He was always so patient, kind, and he’d put on a brave smile, saying that he could endure it. He wasn’t the same young, boisterous, louder than life boy anymore. He was mature, refined, and wore a coy smile on his face, a smile which could make Yamato do anything, even drop his entire career. It was ridiculous how whipped Yamato truly was, but Taichi never took advantage of him in that way. Throughout their entire friendship, even when they couldn’t fathom coming up with proper words and resorted to fists, Taichi was always unapologetically honest. That’s why, as they grew up and Taichi grew more reserved and kept to himself more so, Yamato was perplexed. There were times where Yamato didn’t know if Taichi was telling the truth, or only saying things he thought Yamato wanted to hear. There were times where Yamato felt like a fucking asshole, and that he did not deserve Taichi. Taichi, whose presence was always so illuminating when they were children, more radiant than the sun itself, was shrouded with clouds of uncertainty and insecurity. It haunted Yamato, thinking back on the time they were in the Ferris wheel in Odaiba, arguing over what action needed to be taken to counter the problem with Meicoomon, when Taichi admitted his fears. Initially, it baffled Yamato to hear those words coming from Taichi’s mouth — the Taichi he knew whose childlike demeanor and intrepidity even in the face of giant, powerful Digimon, that he was learning more about that world, but he was also growing more hesitant and wary.</p><p class="p1">
  <strong>And do you still think love is a Laserquest</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>Or do you take it all more seriously</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>I've tried to ask you this in some daydreams that I've had</strong>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="p1">That’s why, Yamato was unsure of what to do, when Taichi unexpectedly was okay with the arrangement they had. Even though he would be gone for months at a time, unpredictable and changing on the go, Taichi was fine with it. His response left Yamato in a flurry of emotions; it wasn’t anguish, but it wasn’t happiness either. He felt so bittersweet, yet grateful he had the chance to meet Taichi. He felt fortunate, that he was able to experience unconditional love, something he never felt he had the chance to have.</p><p class="p1">
  <em>“Yamato, your success is just as important as my own. Your achievements shouldn’t be limited by the likes of me.”</em>
</p><p class="p1">To that, Yamato couldn’t muster up the courage to say anything back. His previous arguments were reduced to stammers; he initially was speechless, and felt confused. It made him feel like Taichi didn’t want him to prioritize their relationship, the relationship they built over the course of their entire lives, which they only recently made official. Well, if you counted the months that Yamato had to leave town, then over two years, anyway. He couldn’t answer that without sounding like he had no other plans besides from starting a family with Taichi and wanting to spend each and every day with him. That just wasn’t feasible, considering his path to stardom, and how his band, Knife of Day, were kicking off internationally. It would be unfair to the rest of the group if their lead singer were to drop on a whim, just to elope or "knock boots".</p><p class="p1">
  <strong>But you're always busy being make-believe</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>And do you look into the mirror to remind yourself you're there</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>Or have somebody's good-night kisses got that covered</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>Well I'm not being honest, I'll pretend that you were just some lover</strong>
</p><p class="p1">It just wasn’t fair, because Yamato, in the deepest depths of his heart, wished Taichi would push and demand him to stay, to want him to spend all their time together and achieve a sense of normalcy in their own way, a normalcy that was comfortable rather than intolerable. The atmosphere of the apartment he and Taichi shared felt incomplete. He was always on the move, so he didn’t exactly have his own apartment in Japan aside from his dad’s place; so at first, Taichi offered his place. Even before they decided to have this arrangement, Taichi was always so forgiving, even when Yamato showed up in the dead of the night, tipsy from a few drinks, or when he would get crossed with the rest of his band mates after a long night of recording in the studio. Even if his facial expression appeared incredulous and bemused, he always brought him in, ensured he drank plenty of fluids, and changed out of his musty clothes.</p><p class="p1">
  <strong>Now I can't think of air without thinking of you</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>I doubt that comes as a surprise</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>And I can't think of anything to dream about</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>I can't find anywhere to hide</strong>
</p><p class="p1">Each time he'd grow nervous, when stage fright would get to him, and suddenly the sound would get trapped in his throat, he'd practice the breathing exercises he had learned to help Taichi. When they all thought Taichi was gone for good, without a body left to even allow for them to cope and mourn, the worst had occurred. Taichi was jumpy for days, which extended onto weeks and months. It was only when Taichi had broken down in front of him, when Yamato had to deliberate and make the decision to call the crisis line or for emergency care, that Taichi begged him to never reveal what happened that night, and how truly horrible the aftermath was. What wasn't uttered, for a single second in time, was how Taichi witnessed Gennai desecrating Nishijima-sensei's remains, and how the only thing he could hear, was the pained groans from the intercom before it was just static silence, and how for nights on end, that was the only thing that would lie rampant in his thoughts, whether it be in his slumber or when he would remain awake, staring at the ceiling wishing to be relieved of his suffering. The others didn't know, that in the middle of the night, Yamato would leave his phone on, in case Taichi would text or call, just so he could be there for him in his darkest moments. The others didn't know, that when Taichi seemed to be lost in his career, not knowing what he wanted to do exactly in university, that a large portion of it was spent trying to figure out how to even breathe, to find a semblance of purpose, and peace.</p><p class="p1">Yamato learned, that Taichi had plenty of tricks he learned, so that he could keep his grip on reality, to prevent himself from giving up entirely. Whether it be finding the time to simply breathe, counting his breaths by inhaling in for 5, holding for 7, and breathing out on 9. What they didn't know, was those power poses were intentional, to keep him from kneeling over, and running away from his fears of failure and incompetence. It's not like Taichi was the poster child of what it's like to have anxiety; he didn't journal, nor did he practice "self-care" religiously, as tabloids painted out mental illnesses to be. He wasn't healed from the love that Yamato gave him, nor from the undeniable love he received from friends, family, and all those who were graced in his presence. Instead, things got ugly. Taichi would lash out, with pained screams and agony, as his entire being was wearing away. His glistening, sun-kissed skin instead appeared pale; his full cheeks appeared sunken in. Even when they would fight, out of pure anger, from their lover quarrels, or to just let off some steam, Taichi's fists would barely make a difference; his fingers would be able to wrap around Taichi's lithe wrists with ease, and in those moments, Yamato still continues to regret not having helped Taichi sooner. Once Taichi was able to finally receive accommodations for his condition, after consulting multiple specialists and getting diagnosed with PTSD, he was able to begin outlining his recovery. Even if it was just letting his instructors briefly know a glimpse of what he was experiencing, he was able to get extra time to complete his work, when even brushing his teeth seemed too mentally taxing.  The most small changes, helped contribute to improve his mood, even with self-affirmations, saying "I'm okay, this is temporary."</p><p class="p1">
  <br/>
  <strong>And when I'm hanging on by the rings around my eyes</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>And I convince myself I need another</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>And for a minute it gets easier to pretend that you were just some lover</strong>
</p><p class="p1">It was strange to see their dynamic shift from when they were children; instead of being the reliable older brother, whose coddling was rather excessive at times to compensate for lost times, Yamato felt lost, whereas Takeru was a free spirit.Takeru lived in Airbnbs or inns currently in America, working on his novel, conducting in-depth interviews as he arranged meetings with the Digi Destined around the world. His work granted him the opportunity to meet people from a wide array of demographics, ethnic and socioeconomic backgrounds. It was ironic, that he, as a musician, felt lost in the sea of his fans, the people who brought him to this fame he longed for, ever since he was a kid practicing the harmonica for the first time. Yamato wanted his music to reach other troubled souls, for those dealing with issues at home, those feeling foreign in their own hometown, those who felt alone in their struggle. He wanted to help those just like him, and he wanted to be someone who his past self would look up to.</p><p class="p1">He gets used to the image of Taichi wearing his jumper, a pair of boxer briefs and long socks; the pinnacle of domestic bliss, and the sense of solace he wanted for so long. Even if it was just them lounging around the house, he’d trade all his material possessions just to be physically present.</p><p class="p1">Yet, this remained a fantasy, an unachievable daydream he strived for. He couldn't. He wanted to respect Taichi's wishes. He wanted to be someone that Taichi could be proud of. Someone who he would look to, with a knowing smile, that he was the love of his life, in sickness and in health.</p><p class="p1">
  <br/>
  <strong>When I'm pipe and slippers and rocking chair</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>Singing dreadful songs about something</strong>
  <br/>
  <strong>Well I've found a better method of pretending you were just some lover</strong>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p1">Maybe, what Yamato didn't know, was that the sleeves of his jumper, the jumper which Taichi adored and was often sprayed with the cologne he left behind, were stained with snot and tears. Taichi's patience was waning with each passing moment, and his smiles were wearing thin. </p><p class="p1">Maybe, it's when Yamato knocks on the door, and receives no answer, that the panic sets in and he dials the number of anyone he knew who would be in close proximity to them in Odaiba, that his mind short-circuits, and his mind goes back to those dark moments in time, when Taichi was unrecognizable. Maybe, it's his fault that Taichi potentially may have relapsed, and that's why he wasn't answering and he was on the bathroom marble floor and —</p><p class="p1">A hoarse voice interrupted his thoughts, as the door creaked open, and in a disbelieving tone said,</p><p class="p1">
  <em>"Yamato?"</em>
</p><p class="p1">Before him, Taichi stood against the doorframe, with a towel wrapped around his head, stray droplets dribbling down his Adam's apple to the indents of his clavicles; his cheeks were flushed, probably from the hot steam of the bath, and he wore the familiar jumper, boxer shorts, and the unmistakable knee socks.</p><p class="p1"><em>"Taichi," </em>choked out Yamato, to which Taichi responded, with a soft smile on his face,</p><p class="p1">
  <em>"Welcome home."</em>
</p><p class="p1"> </p><p class="p2"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I wrote this during my hour break, since I did a lot of work earlier so I wanted to decompress. I really like writing these two, but I hope you all aren't getting bored of my writing style LOL... I like a monologuing Yamato, what can I say.</p><p>I love Arctic Monkeys so much :') Piledriver Waltz is probably going to be next. </p><p>Follow my tumblr @jxneun for art related to fics; this fic was based on the first picture actually ehe<br/>https://hawkmon525.tumblr.com/post/615874813932765185/jxneun-go-to-sleep-the-night-is-young</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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